


The Bleeding Color-Palette Of Life

by distelhawk



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Fluff, I just needed to write something, M/M, POV!Will, also Renner's ass on twitter feels, bc BILLY BRANDT FEELS, though there is no ass in this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distelhawk/pseuds/distelhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have cared though. It threatened his perfectly manufactured world, the one that worked out for so long and it had things bleed, the structured color-palette of his life melting and running together, painting a picture he wasn’t sure he could still analyze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bleeding Color-Palette Of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kerry_0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerry_0506/gifts).



> So, according to Simon Pegg, Benji calls Will "Billy"? This has given me feels. And I had to drabble something down.  
> Thanks to stormxpadme for the quick beta!

There were a number of things IMF Agent William Brandt kept separate in his life. It was a necessity in his line of work, a way to find small islands of peace between terrorists and borderline-world domination, all the little stressful things that made his professional life just that bit more hectic than that of the average joe.  
  
It was a rule that had always worked well for him and had never been in any way bothersome – that was until he joined the team of one Ethan Hunt. Granted, he not so much chose to join as was forced to (or, you know, die a probably fucking cold death in a Russian prison). Again, he had not planned to change his structured, well-loved and often-analyzed approach to life but somehow found it had changed on him.  
  
It changed in the way that he let Agent Dunn become Benji. Benji who nudged their shoulders together during briefings and whispered obscure pop-culture references into his ear. Will was known for his focus and professionalism, he had no idea what Benji was talking about, but still found himself leaning in to listen, pretending not to notice the warmth of Benji’s skin close to his.  
  
It changed when he said yes. Yes to a beer or two off-base during downtime, yes to an evening watching that film he _absolutely had to watch, ohmygoditisaclassic!_ at Benji’s place and finding the couch way too comfortable. So comfortable in fact that he nodded off and for the first time in his life was not wearing a clean shirt to work. It was a fluke, a once-in-a-lifetime mistake that kept happening again and again.  
  
So what if Benji’s eyes had been all soft when he’d looked at him the next morning over his massive Agent Coulson coffee mug. That his stomach had felt weirdly tender and his neck felt hot. That he ended up on the exact same couch only three days later asleep again was … it was coincidence until it wasn’t. Until he woke up to Benji’s hair tickling his nose and his head on Will’s chest and their legs tangled together. Until they both blinked awake and somehow lips were on lips and Shirts were on the floor and … and Will not only wore a wrinkled shirt the next day, for the first time in everything ever, he was also 10 minutes late.  
  
He wanted to care but found that he didn’t.  
  
He should have cared though. Because being late and sneaking almost shy glances at a grinning, British goober in the middle of a battle strategy meeting, stealing kisses in dark corners it … it was bound to crash and burn. It threatened his perfectly manufactured world, the one that worked out for so long and it had things bleed, the structured color-palette of his life melting and running together, painting a picture he wasn’t sure he could still analyze. He was never a fan of expressionism.  
  
And while he did care, on a superficial level, the kind of level that had him crack his knuckles more than usual or swallow thickly, he didn’t care _enough_.  
  
He wondered if he should care though. Wondered about it more than he cared to admit even to himself; too many hours spent staring at a bedroom wall that wasn’t his own and warm in a way he didn’t think he could be without? Benji’s arms on and around him. Wondering how it was that he spent Thanksgiving with the Dunn family (before hastily packing a bag, _your mission, should you choose to accept it_ , another holiday disaster averted).  
  
He wondered for weeks, thoughts tripping in circles, until one day sweater-covered arms slipped around his waist, nudged Rudolf’s red nose on his own chest and an amused voice whispered in his ear.  
  
“Your mom says dinner is ready and we should be useful, set the table. Sound good, _Billy_?”  
  
And then he stopped wondering. Because it was Benji and Benji now knew his all. Knew Agent Brandt, knew Will and even little Billy and his smile was just as wide and his kisses just as deep.  
  
“If that name leaves this room, I can’t guarantee for anything, _Benjamin_.”  
  
“That a challenge, agent?”  
  
“You bet your ass, pluto.”


End file.
